


dal segno al fine

by lightningwaltz



Category: Messiah Project - All Media Types
Genre: Guilt, Heavy Angst, M/M, Misguided hurt/comfort, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 03:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8429101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: Although he deliberately reaches for Ariga, he’s still surprised when they end up holding hands again. Brittle and stunned but undeniably together. He looks down. They’re barely touching; they very air seems to push them apart, like the wrong sides of two magnets. A promise reneged almost as soon as it was spoken.
  [Right after Hisui no Shou]





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I... honestly don't know what to warn for, when it comes to this fic. It deals very heavily with Mamiya's mindset which feels like a warning in and of itself. Heed the tags on this fic. This is not a happy one. 
> 
> 2\. For some reason I got it in my head that there are sakura petal showers whenever characters graduate but then I realized that's not actually a thing. But. Let's pretend it is. 
> 
> 3\. For this one I'm also operating under the headcanon that Mamiya and Ariga sleep together a lot as a misguided way to connect. 
> 
> 4\. I've been working on this one on and off for months now, finally getting the drive to finish it today. Hurray. /o\

The departure of Mitsumi and Kaidou is heralded by a shower of flowers. 

The gesture is incongruous and playful, and it reminds Mamiya of the bouquets he once received after performances. All those armfuls of crinkly, shiny paper, the air thick with pollen and platitudes. Back then, the violin case would be hauled over his shoulder and it often swayed into whatever he'd be holding. So he'd walk, leaves and bits of flora trailing in his wake. He’d still put them in vases on his desk, imagining that the strain of performance was what had left bruises on those blossoms. 

Today, in the Sakura main hallways, petals from graduation still litter the floor. Wrinkling, browning, their vibrancy giving way to their own fragility. Mamiya is there when Kuroko starts to sweep them up. Elsewhere, Mitsumi and Kaidou’s room is empty. Most of their personal, non-crucial belongings have been burned. They couldn’t take much with them into the field. They couldn’t even take each other.

Kaidou and Mitsumi were practically an institution unto themselves, memorable and quirky as they were. Kuroko’s broom whispers against the floor, brushing away this last sign of them.

Mamiya stops by a pile that Kuroko has not yet reached, and plucks out a petal that remains whole. Even in this one, its veins have grown more pronounced, like bloated capillaries. And they are the same shade as the circles that gathered under Mitsumi’s eyes in these last few days. Even after Kaidou had returned, Mamiya had noticed those shadows had never receded. He suspected they never would. That graduation mission was the kind of thing that altered one quietly, permanently, inside and out. 

“They’re so nice, aren’t they?” 

Kuroko’s voice is one of Mamiya’s favorites in this place. The sing-song quality is feigned, a near falsetto, a high note leaping over the foundation of his truer voice. It's like the notes that make up a chord. He’s seen Kuroko in combat, and knows he can be a real demon, but only to his enemies. Kuroko’s enthusiasm is meticulously cultivated, deliberately expressed. Somehow totally pure and genuine. Mamiya's never met anyone like him. 

“Is it alright if I keep one?” Mamiya asks, studying the way the flower rests in his palm. He has little else that belongs to his senpai. There’s no pictures of them. There are bright red error messages where he once had text messages from them. 

One firm sneeze, and this petal in his palm could fly away. He could lick it up, too. After all, he's already eaten all the candy Mitsumi gave him.

“Go ahead.” He hears Kuroko shifting forward ever so slightly; muscles moving, knees cracking. It seems like he might embrace Mamiya. He doesn't know why, but he need it so badly that he feels his body lock into place. His distress must be obvious and easy to misinterpret, because Kuroko stops moving. He doesn’t touch Mamiya. “Do you want some of the others? This one here looks pretty.” 

“No, this is fine, thank you.” He walks away because the denied offer of comfort wafts in the air, like acid. Like poisonous flowers. 

Back in his room, Mamiya finds his stack of music scores. He decides to preserve the petal between sheets of Brahms, because he’s memorized all that repertoire anyway. It disappears between clefs and bars, rests and Italian notation. 

Mamiya hears familiar footsteps, and by their rhythm he knows that it’s Ariga returning. His stomach clenches, because he wants to be alone. He definitely doesn’t want their conversations that lurch back and forward in awkward, tempo-less pauses. He doesn’t want to see more of Ariga’s back than his face, nor does he want to hear his own voice raised in passive-aggressive apologies or reminders. He doesn’t want this _dal segno al fine_ with no logic, beat, or melody. 

To be fair, Mamiya has always been better at naming what he doesn’t want rather than what he does. 

The door opens, and it’s not as though Mamiya can eject Ariga from their shared room. He's stuck. Caught out. 

“What are you…?” Ariga just stares for a moment. Probably because Mamiya is crouched over. “Are you going off to practice again?” 

“No. I was just looking at my sheet music.” It probably makes him sound opaque, but that's preferable to broadcasting his own sentimentality. Ariga leans over, extends a hand, and helps Mamiya stand. 

“How are they?” Ariga asks. Mamiya tilts his head a little before he understands. 

“Still the same songs,” he says at last. “Same as they’ve been for hundreds of years.” 

He thinks he’s making a joke, and he thinks Ariga nearly laughs. When he turns away, he actually misses the feeling of Ariga’s hand in his. Mamiya thinks he should leave the room while they’re still bright with this near-connection. Better to go while things are like this, rather than stay until it all decays.

“Today was interesting.” Mamiya doesn’t know why he’s venturing this. Maybe because he can hear how their voices echo a little more, heightened by the emptiness in Mitsumi and Kaidou’s room below. 

“Yes.” The bed squeaks a little, as Ariga sits in it. And then he doesn't move, doesn't really blink. Doesn't say another word. Sometimes, Mamiya thinks about the people who've transformed Ariga into a weapon. Something you might value, but you also put it away until you need to kill again. You don't think about the well-being of a gun when it's in storage. 

“... How do you feel about them leaving?” 

“I think that it was their time to go.” 

Mamiya looks down. Appraises Ariga in his casual clothes. How his back is soldier-straight, even here, even in this context. 

“What does _that_ mean?” Mamiya knows Ariga can’t be as cold as he sounds. Few people are. That's the problem. 

“They’ve been here for years. They deserve a chance to do something new. Cadets shouldn’t stay here indefinitely.” There's something that flashes in Ariga’s eyes. It wrests all that crafted stoicism from his face. Mamiya's sight is thoroughly average, so he loses track of it just as fast.

It's true. Cadets couldn’t remain. 

The details of Mamiya’s own planned departure from Sakura has been outlined months in advance. It’s been strengthened through encrypted text messages, and hushed discussions in abandoned buildings. When he’s gone, Ariga will have to start over with someone new. If Ariga is lucky. And no one associated with Mamiya is very lucky. 

“It’s a bit terrible, actually.” Mamiya’s fists bunch up against his own thighs. “Kaidou had to deceive Mitsumi. I’ve never seen Mitsumi that angry. Kaidou was shot, too. And now they never get to see each other?” 

“Yes.” Ariga says. He might not need to wear a mask, if he were part of Quantum Cat. Everything he felt just slides off his face. Never registering. “That seems to be the case.” 

Over the years, Mamiya has become a specialist in subtle, effective cruelty. He can recognize the same quality in other people, other organizations. Inhumanity is the harmony binding everything in Sakura. That's why they exploited the pain of their recruits. Agony in the mind often dwarfed agony in the body, after all. Anyone would try to seek a false salve.

“Then why,” he can hear the snarl hiding in his lips, though he doubts Ariga can see it, “were we pretending to be so happy for them? Why is no one thinking about what this must have done to them?” 

“Mamiya.” There’s a catch in Ariga’s voice, and it stops Mamiya as neatly as a bullet. “To be honest, I don’t really want to think _at all_ tonight.” 

Now that his misery has been confirmed, Mamiya tries- _again_ \- to see it in Ariga. None of the usual signs are there. Save for one; Mamiya has heard men drowning in their own blood, and their eyes looked much like this.

_Ariga’s going to miss Kaidou and Mitsumi._

 _....So will I?_

“I understand.” Mamiya tries to unclench his fingers. He has to go one by one, like he's deciding to drop a gun. Trying to halt an assassination or execution. Although he deliberately reaches for Ariga, he’s still surprised when they end up holding hands again. Brittle and stunned but undeniably together. He looks down. They’re barely touching; they very air seems to push them apart, like the wrong sides of two magnets. A promise reneged almost as soon as it was spoken. “I get it, I really do,” Mamiya adds. “At least we helped them, a little.” 

Mamiya and Ariga’s true cease-fire had happened in this very room, standing by this very bed. He had apologized, Ariga had accepted, and it had been and accomplished with little noise or fuss. Just how Mamiya liked it. Then, they had sat down across from one another, mapping out the logistics of a ‘spontaneous,’ loud reconciliation. They plotted to detonate that little scene at the most fortuitous moment. And it had mostly worked. 

“Yeah.” Ariga nods. “At least we did that for them.”

Mamiya tries to put a name to his emotional turmoil. It’s like being nauseous and hungry all at once. Now that his senpai are gone, he realizes he would enact a hundred similar farces if it meant salvaging Kaidou and Mitsumi’s relationship. When the colossus of Sakura ends up toppling, he hopes his senpai so far north they escape any of the fallout. 

He tries to tell himself that his actions may have a positive effect for the current cadets. No more Sakura means an end to their latter-day indentured servitude. They would have to be clever and quick, but they might get a real chance at _freedom_.

After indulging in this fantasy, he reminds himself that it’s self-serving fiction. It would be pleasant result, but never something Mamiya intended. 

If he fails, he hopes he’s dead before Kaidou and Mitsumi hear about his betrayal. He’s a coward, and he’s okay with this one last escaping act. 

“Mamiya, you’ve been kind of pale all day,” Ariga says, without looking up. Now he’s the one staring at Mamiya’s hands. He looks like he’s never seen them before. “Do you need to go outside or something?” 

“No.” Mamiya’s voice has already been pretty low. It slides lower still, and he can hear Ariga’s swallow. “I realized you’re right. I don’t want to think, either.” 

He reaches out, cupping the back of Ariga's head. There's an absurd temptation to stroke that hair as best as he's able, but he quells the idea with a kiss. He's not much shorter, but bad posture makes him seem as though he is. It's nice to be the one bending down, his hands setting the tempo, drawing Ariga out. 

As soon as their lips meet, Ariga's relaxed exhale seems to resonate through Mamiya's whole body. Normally, his messiah's breathing drives him _crazy_. Mostly because it's impossible to pinpoint. As soon as Ariga sees Mamiya, the tempo of it always jumps immediately. It's not lust or revulsion or any of the emotions Mamiya tends to inspire. It's like having a mosquito whining in his ear, every day, from start to finish.

_You can't hate me, though. Right?_ Mamiya's hands move slowly and Ariga relaxes bit by bit, vertebra by vertebra. _I don't know what's wrong, but I don't think you hate me. Maybe._

He reminds himself that Ariga _should_ hate him, provided he had all the information, and he kisses that much harder.

Ariga's arm circles Mamiya's waist, and pulls him down into his lap. They carry on like this for a while, Mamiya wishing (not for the first time) that Ariga was the type to bite until it drew blood. Strange. He's often hated that exact same presumptuousness in others that he's fucked. Tonight, though, a little pain would go a long way. 

Instead, Ariga kisses like he fights; moving on and on, obdurate, goal-oriented. And Mamiya decides to lose himself in it the same way he chooses to lose all their mock battles.

( _He has that keen memory of being collapsed on the floor, Ariga hovering above him, holding him down. The burst of pain that never came. The mortal pain he knew would find him eventually. There had been sweat on Mamiya's face, and he had been unsure if it was his or not. Ariga's glare had been almost tender, even when he vivisected the results of their fight. "You keep holding back," he'd said. And it had been far more intimate than any of their sexual encounters. This strange, intoxicating sense that Ariga had been reading his body the same way Mamiya read sound. He'd never experienced anything like that._ )

He splays his hands across Ariga's chest, pushing until he conveys his meaning. Ariga lies down on his back, taking Mamiya with him. He can barely discern other sounds. He's too preoccupied by their tongues moving together, engaging all the senses at once. 

Ariga’s hands find the hem of Mamiya’s shirt, slide under it, and touch all the bare skin beneath everything. His fingers are cold, and it occurs to Mamiya that this is the first time they’ve been fully clothed while kissing. Normally, they're naked by the point they end up in the same bed. During their second or third time, Mamiya had abruptly laughed, right in the middle of things, at the sight of Ariga's discarded clothes. They'd been folded with such care and precision and left on a chair. Truly emblematic of the lacking desire in this relationship. Ariga, for his part, had paused everything. Maybe he'd been shocked that Mamiya _could_ laugh. 

Here they are now. A long way from that. And yet... Still exactly like that. Mamiya wonders what might happen if they just kissed like this for hours. For days. Slowly, lazily, utterly denying a world that had done so little for them. His lips move lower, until he's licking Ariga's neck. A happy little shudder courses through them both. Ariga's nails actually dig into Mamiya's back, like he's a supplicant. Like he's entreating Mamiya for... something. Salvation? Oblivion? 

Those could be the very same things. 

He pulls back, and stares down at Ariga. Mamiya slides his fingers over those cheekbones and feels like he's touching the lethal side of a knife. He wonders what his own blood would look like, splattered over Ariga's skin. He might find out someday soon. 

Ariga's looks are alluring and forbidding all at once. Mamiya's wondered, from the start, about all the fantasies that must have been grafted onto this man. How many people have seen Ariga and wanted to fuck someone aloof, commanding, and distant? Did they notice the way Ariga flinched at sudden movements? Did they care that he didn't have a favorite song, and never seemed to share comical anecdotes about his childhood?

Mamiya has some experience with that kind of thing. His natural insecurity can be crafted into the most effective disguise of all. There were always repulsive people in the world who _loved_ that quality. Some wanted to play the hero and save timid, deferential Mamiya. Some wanted to grind him further into the dirt. Either way, they desired his persona, and sometimes Mamiya let them have it. Trading favors, manipulating for information, accepting scraps of affection... It had all blurred together over these hungry years. He couldn't tell where his original melody began, and where all these revisionists had scribbled over his notes. Bulldozing in their ideas of what he should be, how he should sound. The result was clamorous, a symphony with no particular meaning at all.

It's not fair that the same thing probably happened to Ariga too. 

It's not fair that it's probably happening right now.

"You're thinking something." Ariga's hands have paused. Everything about him is in hiatus.

_I feel like I'm devouring you. I'm so sorry._

One of Mamiya's thumbs is rubbing Ariga's shoulder a little. "Yeah, I was thinking you look... good?" 

"Oh. Same. I mean, you also look good." 

That would be beguiling. However, Ariga must be concealing things within that answer. Mamiya won't ask- probably doesn't want to know- so they both seek clarity in kissing again. He can feel it in the way their bodies strain against each other, the way their hands grab on and don't let go. There's a spark to it all. Lightning crackling within his marrow, setting him ablaze. _Now_ they take care of each other's clothes. No careful discarding here. He tugs harshly at Ariga's shirt, and Ariga can't seem to get Mamiya out of his pants fast enough. 

When they're fully naked, he finds himself wanting to undress Ariga all over again. Just for the the sheer thrill of it. Everything is novel and new, even though he’s seen Ariga, touched Ariga, tasted Ariga a number of times before.

_Is this passion?_ He wonders this, as his thoughts float through a fog. Ariga has started to stroke Mamiya's cock. He usually does this with such meticulousness. Someone who knows the exact spots to touch him, in order to get him off within a reasonable amount of time. Maybe not the most inspiring thing, but Mamiya has had far, _far_ worse.

Tonight Ariga's being unusually slow about it. Almost teasing. Hard to read anything in that face, but his pulse indicates he's liking _something._ Probably the show Mamiya doesn't mean to be putting on. Refraining from writhing, trying not to groan or make faces. All those good things. 

He has a bizarre desire to _beg._ Mamiya has faked that for the people who really seemed to want him to do it. It's not like it actually cost him anything. 

Mamiya's never wanted to cling to someone like this, and tell them how very much he _needs_ something from them. 

So he pushes Ariga's hand away, holds on tight, and abruptly changes their position. Until Ariga's the one flat on his back. Mamiya would mess up this exact sort of move in training, and, judging by that expression, it's not lost on Ariga. Mostly, though, his messiah is nearly shivering. He looks like he wants to gorge on everything Mamiya has to offer. Or maybe he wants to bask in some kind of reflected, holy glow. 

_You're looking for that in the wrong person. I'm so sorry._

Mamiya can try, though. Maybe he can attempt a satisfying facsimile. He rummages around in their bedside drawer, his shaking hands pulling out what they need. When he gets his fingers inside Ariga, the resultant moans sound so loud. Maybe it's because of the acoustics of the empty room below, or maybe Mamiya is doing just that well.

"So. Are you thinking of anything?" He asks, before licking Ariga's ear. Gently, enticingly. What did life sound like for everyone else? All those muted sounds. Was it like living under water? 

"No." Ariga has to force that out through gritted teeth. His hands are bunched up in the blanket, though sometimes they hover up like they want to reach for Mamiya. Amusingly, one of his feet ends up slung over Mamiya's shoulder. "Well. I'm thinking of you."

"Hmm?" 

"I think about you a lot." 

That confession makes Mamiya start a little. He bites his way down Ariga's neck, swallowing more questions, swallowing temptation. Anything he might learn would not help. 

"Can I fuck you?" He doesn't even sound like himself anymore. 

" _Yes_." Then again, neither does Ariga. 

He takes his time doing it, even though they're both good and ready. Mamiya likes watching Ariga's face, in this moment. Vulnerable and guarded. Needy and reticent. The further in he goes, the more Ariga's pulse pounds and pounds, thrumming deep in Mamiya's bones. He wishes he was the type to use endearments with people. He hopes someone, someday, uses endearments with Ariga. 

"You can touch me," Mamiya says, because that's all he can offer. His body. That's it. Ariga grabs onto his hips. Pulls him in more. 

"Yeah. _There_." That last word almost ends on a whimper. You wouldn't need special hearing skills to tell. 

"I know, Ariga." Mamiya leans down, kisses Ariga on the forehead. "Relax. I've got you." 

There's something warring inside Ariga for sure. A spike in his heartrate. The brief return of that awful breathing that Mamiya can't name. But then he nods and wraps his legs around Mamiya. 

Though he was deep inside already, this is like sinking into Ariga. Obliterating himself on the hard planes of Ariga's body, melting into the places Mamiya is touching within. Now he's the one tense with vulnerability. He decides to chase this wild, nameless rhythm building between them. After all, he's drowning already. He rocks in and out, wringing pleasure out of Ariga. Wringing out so much of the emotion his messiah refuses to name. 

Mamiya hears making saying stupid, inarticulate sounds. Maybe he actually _is_ saying endearments. Maybe he's confessing everything against Ariga's lips, against Ariga's skin. Maybe Ariga is doing the same. 

It doesn't make a different. They're both refusing to listen. No matter what. That's what keeps this all in balance. 

After they both come, they break a few more traditions. No polite expressions of thanks. No one sneaks back to their bed. No one throws on a towel and goes to take a shower. They just collapse against each other, and Mamiya contemplates all the ways in which a silent room is full of noise. 

Case in point; Ariga's breathing is slow and deep and almost content. Mamiya indulges in its soft unfamiliarity. 

Then he gets up, rummages through his sheet music, and finds the flower petal from earlier. There's no point to preserving it, he realizes. When he must escape, he's not going to make time to retrieve such a thing. It will probably burn like everything else he owns. 

He would leave it in one of Ariga's books, but Ariga doesn't own any of those. He probably wouldn't relish that kind of memento, either. He'll probably want to forget everything for real. 

So Mamiya sets the petal on his own tongue and swallows. His mouth and nostrils briefly fill with the taste of it. He lies down again, matching his breathing to Ariga's until even the scent of flowers has faded.


End file.
